


Correspondence

by Jain



Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: Community: ramanthin_roman, First Time, M/M, POV Third Person, Past Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-18
Updated: 2010-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:17:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/pseuds/Jain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thom had never had occasion to think overlong on Volstov's mail service as a student.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Correspondence

**Author's Note:**

> Written after the publication of _Shadow Magic_ and before _Dragon Soul_.

Thom had never had occasion to think overlong on Volstov's mail service as a student. Most of the people he needed to communicate with could more easily be found by stopping in at their offices or dormitories. On the rare occasions that written correspondence _was_ necessary, he posted his letters with the certain knowledge that the recipients would receive them within the day. Whatever simple or complex machinations occurred to make that possible were of little concern to him.

Once on the road with Rook, however, he found himself increasingly grateful to the post riders. Often with no more direction than "last heard from in the vicinity of such-and-such town; probably traveling east," they regularly managed to deliver his letters to likely inns along his route. Thom had become accustomed--though no less astonished--to being drawn aside by the innkeeper and told, "I think this one's for you," at which point Thom would examine the letter and either confirm or deny that assumption, more often the former than the latter.

"What's that?" Rook asked, nodding at the square of paper in Thom's left hand, product of the most recent example of th'Esar's competence in maintaining a proper mail service.

Thom dropped the bag slung over his shoulder onto the floor beside the bed he'd claimed for himself. "It's a letter."

"For _you?_ "

"Apparently so."

"What're you doing getting letters for? I thought you made a clean break with the University."

The words were said carelessly, but Thom turned a closer eye upon Rook. Was it possible that Rook was concerned that Thom would abandon him not six weeks into their travels? Or was he truly as uncaring as he appeared? There was no way to know; Rook's strong features communicated nothing.

Thom shrugged. "I did, though leaving the 'Versity doesn't have to mean forgetting about my old friends."

"It didn't seem like you had any friends, back in the Airman," Rook said, a glint in his eye that might have been maliciousness or simple curiosity.

"Most of them stayed away for fear of corrupting my work," Thom said mildly. "There were at least one or two whom you might have seen, though, if you'd been paying attention. Not all of them students." He waved the letter in demonstration. "This one's from Balfour."

" _Balfour?_ What's that whey-faced cindy doing writing to you?"

Thom frowned, but declined to complain about Rook's language. "I did write to him first. Well, to all the airmen, thanking them for their hospitality and wishing them well."

"Should've known you'd spend all your time scribbling," Rook muttered.

"Yes, you probably should have," Thom agreed. "You had ample opportunity to observe me in Thremedon. Just because I'm traveling with you doesn't mean that I've undergone a complete personality change."

"Oh, yes, bedding down in flea-bitten rooms and tromping through the muck is exactly what you did back then," Rook said sarcastically.

Thom shook his head. "Maybe not when you saw me, but I'd had years of poverty before I entered the 'Versity. Not to mention that a fair number of students have to choose between books, meals, and a lack of fleas. If you're lucky, you manage two out of three. I wasn't usually lucky."

There was a brief silence in which Thom could virtually see Rook's desire to mock him, to turn his petty discomforts into a joke. He managed to refrain, however, and instead said, "So, is Balfour the only one you're corresponding with? Or are they all sending you letters in their free time?"

"Ghislain wrote to me just once: a polite letter acknowledging receipt of my thank you note. Adamo writes to me occasionally; he's been keeping me apprised of the political situation. Luvander I've never heard from."

"No wonder there. He's never liked you," Rook said heartlessly.

"Neither have you," Thom pointed out.

Rook shrugged and didn't bother to dispute it. "You can't choose your family. It's a shame, but I guess I'm stuck with you now."

Thom did his best to restrain the brightness of his smile, but wasn't sure how well he succeeded. "Likewise."

* * *

The writing was beautifully flowing, Thom noticed when he opened the letter later that evening--just as he'd noticed with Balfour's previous letters--but very different from what he remembered of Balfour's penmanship. Either the magicians had created mechanical hands that wrote a perfect script, or Balfour was not yet accustomed to his hands and using a secretary to write his correspondence. Thom strongly suspected the latter, and his heart panged for Balfour, who'd always taken a quiet pride in his accomplishments.

 _I am glad to hear that you and Rook have encountered no difficulties on the road,_ the letter began, _and that your travels have been interesting and informative. I confess that the closest I've gotten to the southeastern corner of Volstov has been the small portion I saw while flying over it at extreme speed, so your experiences are entirely new and surprising to me._

 _Thank you for asking after my sister. She does very well...not always to my benefit. After initially putting a crimp in her style--as an invalid and war hero, my parents, and my mother in particular, gave me a share of cosseting that Catherine considered her own due--she at last discovered that I could be made useful to her. Without consulting me or anyone else, she began charging her young friends for the privilege of coming to the house and shaking hands with me._

 _You'll laugh, but I actually believed at first that the steady stream of children who presented their hands to me with a most genteel air were proof positive that even Catherine's rambunctious friends could be tamed by the combined efforts of parents, tutors, and governesses. It took the incautious purchase of a hat that Catherine had long coveted, and that ought to have been far beyond her means, before we discovered the truth: that her deceptively well-mannered friends are merely sign of Catherine's ability to make bank. No doubt this skill will be of great benefit to her later in life, though at the moment it has earned her a scolding and two weeks of no dessert._

 _Catherine takes this punishment with good humor. She has confided to me that her friends had begun to weary of the amusement, finding my hands of less interest than my stories of the Dragon Corps, and that her economic enterprise had almost reached its natural conclusion even before it was dissolved by parental authority. As you might imagine, this was gratifying for me to hear, as well as a consolation for Catherine. The affair therefore has a uniformly happy ending: it has reconciled Catherine to my presence; it has earned me the admiration of a bevy of young maidens and gentlemen who, while they are too young for dancing and such amusements, are nonetheless enthusiastic cardplayers and cheerful conversationalists; and it has won me an extra serving of cake every day for two weeks._

 _My regards to both you and Rook, though I'm certain that Rook, at least, would disdain the source of the sentiment, and possibly also the sentiment itself._

 _Balfour_

* * *

"Another one?" Rook asked ten days later, rolling his eyes a little, when Thom returned from his private conversation with the innkeeper, a new letter clutched in his hand.

Thom shrugged. "Correspondence isn't just invitations and thank you notes, after all. Balfour's pleasant to write to."

"If by 'pleasant,' you mean 'too mamby-pamby to express an actual opinion,'" Rook said.

Thom just shrugged again. There was no point in defending Balfour when the man wasn't even around to be affected by Rook's insults.

"What's he got to say to you, anyway?" Rook said. He adopted a biting portrayal of Balfour's refined accent and mild demeanor. "'I went riding on my fourth favorite horse this afternoon, then had my groom feed the beast enough grain to last a Molly family for a week. After which I dined on peacock pie prepared by our Arlemagne cook and took a long nap.'"

"You're not exactly in the habit of depriving yourself needlessly, either." Thom pointed out, unwilling to let this hypocrisy stand. "Insulting Balfour's Arlemagne cook--assuming his family even has one, and this isn't just you making unfounded assumptions--would be more credible if I didn't know you have a taste for Arlemagne cuisine yourself."

Rook's eyes flashed, and he dropped the mocking accent abruptly. "Everything I got, I earned for myself."

"Balfour's paid his dues, as well," Thom said. "Besides, even if he weren't a war veteran and _were_ no more than the pampered nobleman you're making him out to be, what would you have him do: refuse to enjoy good food and a soft life simply because elsewhere people are less well off? I wouldn't do so if I were Balfour. I don't do it now."

Unexpectedly, Rook laughed at that argument. "Who would've thought the little moral philosopher would enjoy stomping on the poor?" he said, smirking.

Thom shot him an annoyed glare. "I don't _enjoy_ stomping on anyone. I just like eating three meals a day and not having to hunt for an unoccupied bed every night. I hardly think I'm different from anyone else in that regard."

"Well, except that some of us prefer hunting for an occupied bed," Rook said with a wolfish grin.

"Not if you were a kid and the available occupants were all men four times your age, you wouldn't," Thom retorted, then bit his tongue in chagrin. Part of the reason he tried to not argue with Rook was that Rook was so unreasonable when he was crossed, but the other part was that Thom had a tendency to become carried away by the debate and reveal things he oughtn't.

To his surprise, Rook didn't comment on his half-admission. He gave Thom a brief nod. "Not exactly a worry now, though, is it? Any man four times your age isn't going to be capable of much more than sipping barley broth and demanding an extra sweater."

Thom let out a startled laugh, and Rook preened a little at the success of his joke. "All right then," Rook said, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. "I'm off to see how's my luck in persuading one of the barmaids into a bit of bedsharing right now. You have fun with your letter"--this last said in a sneering tone. "And let me know if Balfour's got anything to say about Adamo or the others."

"Certainly," Thom said, dropping his eyes so that Rook couldn't read the amusement in them. Of course Rook couldn't simply say that he missed the other airmen, but his feelings were clear enough. Thom made a note to ask Balfour specifically for news of the other airmen, should Balfour not have provided it in his letter unprompted.

* * *

 _Dear Thom,_

 _No, I must confess I've never eaten squid. After reading your description, I'm rather certain I do not want to, either, though if we ever happen to be in Berenz at the same time, you have my permission to try to change my mind. In the meantime, I comfort myself with the thought that I have almost certainly eaten a greater quantity and variety of raw meat than you have. My father takes our Ramanthine heritage quite seriously, and dinners in my house tend to include a somewhat excessive number of dishes prepared and served tartare. This gustatory accomplishment must redeem my tarnished honor._

 _To my father's great disappointment, my mother insists that we serve such traditional fare only at small family parties, which are become fewer and fewer of late. As I anticipated, my mother has decided that three months is a sufficient period of convalescence. The lap blankets that were pressed upon me--quite unnecessarily--only a week ago have been retired, and nearly every evening a new guest or guests grace our table. I am sure you will not be surprised to hear that all of the guests so far have been young women between the ages of seventeen and thirty. My mother had resigned herself to the likelihood of my untimely death when I entered the corps; now that I have been honorably discharged with only two small scratches to show for it, she is grooming me to be my father's replacement. Truthfully, I believe Catherine would be better suited to the task of managing our estate, though I've not yet shared this unfilial thought with anyone but you._

 _I hope you will not think any less of me were I to renounce some portion of my familial obligations. I think I can honestly say that we are friends now, rather than merely friendly as we were in the Airman, and I hope that I never do anything to lose the regard you have for me. Your affection and your high opinion are both dearer to me than you may know._

 _No news from Adamo and Ghislain. Luvander has signed on with the navy; he claims to be bored with land, and as the air is now denied to him, he's chosen instead to explore the sea._

 _I hope you continue in good health, and that your increasingly strange diet does not disagree with you._

 _Your friend,_   
_Balfour_

* * *

Thom's most recent letter from Balfour was written in a blockier script, with--not _blotches_ , exactly, but more than one imperfection. Thom wondered how many times Balfour had had to copy it out to achieve even this level of competence. It was much briefer than any of his previous letters had been, but no less exciting; Thom read it thrice through, smiling to himself, then turned to Rook, who had sprawled across one of the beds almost the moment they'd entered the room.

"Rook," Thom said, trying to make his voice achieve the right blend of firm yet reasonable that would hopefully let Rook accept his next words at face value rather than objecting to them out of hand.

Rook grunted in response.

"We've gotten an invitation from Balfour to visit him in his family home," Thom continued.

"You're still writing to that pantywaist?"

It was a pro forma objection; Thom had shared news from Balfour's letters with Rook more than once. "Yes. Hence the invitation."

Rook shrugged. "If his family's like most rich people, the food'll be too dainty to make a decent meal of, but the wine will be top-notch, the beds soft and wide, and the maids pretty. Sure, I'm for it."

Thom smiled. He'd been willing to separate temporarily from Rook in order to visit Balfour, but it would be far more pleasant to go together and not risk Rook's uncertain temper at being left behind. Not that his going didn't have its attendant difficulties, of course; Thom sincerely hoped that Balfour's family had become accustomed to airmen's roughness as a result of having had two sons in the Corps.

* * *

Balfour's home made Thom gape a little as they approached it: a huge, stone house overlooking the sea. It was easily as large as the 'Versity library, but this wasn't a building to house thousands of books and a few dozen professor's offices, but rather a single family.

"Shut your mouth," Rook said exasperatedly. "It's not any bigger than th'Esar's palace."

Thom looked at him in some surprise, then found himself grinning. Rook really did find it that simple: anything more impressive than what he'd experienced _might_ be noteworthy, but anything less so certainly wasn't. "Much more attractive, though," Thom mused, pushing aside the notion that it was treasonous to even make the comparison.

"Well, yeah," Rook said. "It's a house, not a fucking political tactic. Of course it looks nicer than something that's designed to put people in their place."

Thom blinked a little--he'd known that Rook was intelligent enough in a rough sort of way, but he wouldn't have credited him with that particular observation--and was about to respond when a flash of color caught his attention. Balfour had just come out his front door and waved at them a trifle hesitantly, as though he weren't sure whether to rush down the path to greet them or wait for them to reach him.

Before Rook could make a scathing comment, Thom waved in response and set off towards him at a brisker pace. It wasn't until he'd clasped Balfour's outstretched hand companionably that he even noticed that Balfour was wearing a pair of kid gloves. Naturally, Balfour could afford any number of custom made gloves, but they drew Thom's attention in a way that he thought Balfour's mechanical hands wouldn't. He forced his attention to remain on Balfour's smiling face, rather than the large hand that he grasped in his own.

"It's good to see you," Balfour said.

"And you," Thom said. Balfour stiffened almost imperceptibly, and he knew that Rook must have just come up behind him.

"Hello, Balfour," Rook said, more civilly than Thom had expected.

Or Balfour either, judging by the look on his face. Balfour recovered quickly. "Hello, Rook. Come in. Is there anything you need before I show you to your rooms? Something to eat or drink?"

Rook shook his head and answered for them both. "Stopped at an inn not two hours ago. A couple of baths wouldn't hurt, though."

"Of course. Those you can get upstairs. Follow me."

A smartly dressed servant who'd been hovering discreetly at Balfour's elbow ever since the three of them entered the house glided forward now and reached for their bags. Rook handed his over with a brusque nod, and Thom fumbled his bag off his back so that he could do the same, giving the servant a grateful smile.

He and Rook followed Balfour up the wide stairs, the servant bringing up the rear. The guest rooms were apparently on the third floor; Balfour turned to the left and gestured to two open doors opposite each other. "Decide for yourselves which you prefer."

Rook snorted and shoved Thom gently towards one of the doors, not even bothering to look into either room. "You get the one with morning light. I'd rather sleep in."

"Both rooms have curtains on the windows," Balfour said, a little uncertainly.

Thom just shook his head and continued walking towards his appointed room, not wanting to explain that he preferred east-facing rooms, and that Rook knew it. "This one's fine for me," he said.

Almost too fine: Thom and Rook had had to share a bed more than once on their journey--on one memorable occasion, they'd had the innkeeper's entire family in there with them, all the other rooms being full. This bed was as large as that last one had been, and Thom was expected to sleep in it by himself. Additionally, there was an unlaid fireplace, with a settee and a couple of chairs before it; a bookcase whose contents seemed to be selected primarily for show, based on the color-coordinated volumes; a writing desk and chair; an armoire; a pair of bedside tables; and a chest of drawers. This single room contained enough furniture to outfit an entire house.

"I hope it's to your liking," Balfour said, almost anxiously.

Thom turned from his contemplation of the nearest window, which overlooked a small flower garden and, beyond it, a wide, rolling lawn. "It's very nice," he said.

Balfour smiled, and then Rook called from behind him, "Our baths now?"

"Oh, of course." Balfour ushered them down the hallway and to a warm, tiled room containing a large tub, already filled halfway. A moment later, a soft cough had them stepping out of the way to let a pair of young women through, each carrying a steaming bucket. They emptied their burdens into the tub and filed out again.

"Well, looks like I'm first for a bath," Rook said, working on the buttons of his shirt. "The professor's squeamish about maidservants seeing his tackle," he confided to Balfour in a cruel whisper.

Thom rolled his eyes. "You mean, you like to show yours off at the least provocation," he corrected.

Balfour smiled a little uncertainly. When Rook grinned rather than taking offense, Balfour's smile became more genuine.

"We should go," Thom said to Balfour. "There's no point in encouraging his exhibitionist streak. In any case, I was meaning to ask you: do you happen to have a library?"

"Oh, yes," Balfour said. Rook made a derisive noise that both of them ignored. "It's downstairs. I can show you it now, if you'd like."

"Please," Thom said, only just managing to follow Balfour at a sensible pace rather than trying to chivvy them along. After months on the road, he'd become fairly desperate for a few quiet hours with a good book.

* * *

Though it was a wrench to leave the library, Thom managed to be clean, dressed, and in the dining room by the appointed hour. His sacrifice was soon eclipsed by that performed by Rook, however. Rook flirted lightly with Beryl, that particular evening's "young lady between the ages of seventeen and thirty," and not at all with Catherine or with Balfour's mother; he didn't curse once; and the closest he came to an inappropriate comment was to agree with Catherine when she asked him if he'd enjoyed blowing up Ke-Han wizards.

Pretty much the only proof Thom had that Rook hadn't been bewitched by a wizard himself was that he still slurped his soup. Thom felt certain that his face must be mirroring the slightly stunned expression that Balfour wore, but he did his best to devote himself to the excellent meal and to the conversation.

After coffee and dessert--the latter fully enjoyed by Catherine, her punishment over--Rook announced that he was going for a walk about the grounds.

Thom shot a sharp look at him. It was true that Rook didn't care for inactivity, but he also wasn't the type to go for a stroll unless it had a particular destination: say, Beryl's carriage, or more particularly between Beryl's legs _inside_ her carriage. On the other hand, Beryl _was_ nearer to thirty than to seventeen, and there was also the coachman's presence to consider. If Thom's suspicions were correct, then Beryl would have to be both resourceful and determined in order to accept Rook's advances. Under those circumstances, Thom didn't think it necessary to cause a scene about Rook's possibly,-though-not-very-likely innocent walk.

Instead, he waved Rook off with a cheerful smile and invited Balfour to a game of chess.

Balfour's silver hands moved the pieces with neat precision, no gloves to disguise their metallic sheen. Naturally, Balfour couldn't wear them to dinner, and they may have been too difficult for him to put on himself afterwards.

When Balfour placed Thom in checkmate within eighteen moves and his king had duly been tipped over, Thom ventured to say, "You use your hands very well," uncertain if that were the correct way to refer to something that was a _part_ of Balfour now--albeit in a very different way from his flesh and blood limbs--but wanting to express the sentiment nevertheless. "Much more naturally than when I last saw you."

Balfour shrugged. "I've practiced a lot. They can't feel anything, not properly. It makes it harder to not make mistakes."

"They can't feel?"

"Not really. Magicians are very clever, but not as clever as nature, apparently." He smiled as he said that, but Thom could see the lingering sadness in his eyes. "It's just...pressure. I can tell when I'm touching something, but that's all."

"So that means you can't feel this?" Thom asked, taking Balfour's left hand in his. The silver was warm to the touch--just a little warmer than flesh--but very hard.

The metallic fingers twitched in his grasp, then lay still. "No."

"What about this?" Thom raised the hand to his lips and sucked on a finger, even as he felt a hot blush rising to his cheeks. Balfour's letters had certainly suggested... But what if he had been reading them incorrectly, after all, and was only mortifying himself by this shameless display?

Balfour's second "No," was a bit strangled.

Thom raised his eyes to look at him, feeling cautiously optimistic at that response, to find Balfour staring back with a wide-eyed expression on his face, his own cheeks stained red.

Thom let the finger slip out of his mouth, preparing to discuss what they were doing--what they might yet do..and then somehow they were standing very close and Balfour's warm, hard hands were cupping his face and they were kissing breathlessly.

Balfour pulled away after half a minute to gasp, "The door," and Thom said, "Oh! Yes." The last thing he wanted was for Rook to come searching for him and find _this_. He turned the key in the lock and then tested the handle; the door stood firm.

By the time he'd finished that task, Balfour had turned down the blankets on his bed. He ducked his head in embarrassment as Thom stared at it. "Sorry, I'd just assumed--"

"Assume away," Thom said. He started working on the buttons of his shirt; Balfour watched him for a moment with slightly glazed eyes before he raised his hands to his own waistcoat.

Thom's clothing had approximately half as many buttons as Balfour's, and also he wasn't hampered by a new pair of hands, so it wasn't surprising that Thom finished considerably before Balfour did. He stripped off his shirt and unbuttoned his trousers, then stepped forward to help Balfour without taking them off the rest of the way.

Balfour's dark eyes met his expressionlessly for a moment, before his attention returned to the task at hand.

Thom unfastened the very bottom button, figuring that they could meet in the middle. His fingers brushed against Balfour's stomach, still separated from Thom's fingers by at least two layers of fabric, possibly more, and he felt his own belly tighten with anticipation and desire. He wanted to kiss Balfour's mouth, to shove fabric aside and get his hands on bare skin, to palm his own aching cock. Instead he raised his hands to undo the next oversized button--no doubt designed that way for Balfour's ease--and the next, and the next, with fingers that shook slightly.

Balfour's breath came quick and light; apparently he wasn't unmoved by this exercise, either. The two of them soon made quick work of the waistcoat, and less quick but far more enjoyable work of the shirt underneath, which _was_ in fact the last layer separating them. Thom's attention kept straying to the stretch of skin available to his gaze, and he shivered with need.

They dropped the shirt to the floor, and then as one they toed off their shoes and tumbled down onto the bed. Balfour's mouth captured Thom's in another kiss, their bodies pressed warmly together, and the two of them took their pleasure in each other over and over, Balfour's hands moving over Thom's skin with painstaking gentleness.

* * *

Thom blinked himself into wakefulness, feeling drowsy and contented. Rook was sitting in a chair drawn near the bed, and Thom smiled sleepily at him. And then realization stabbed him, like an icicle to the gut, cold and sharp and painfully unwelcome: this wasn't his and Rook's shared room at yet another inn, but the guest bedroom in Balfour's home, and Balfour had spent the night with him.

As nonchalantly as he could, Thom turned his head to look behind him. He breathed a soft sigh of relief; the other half of the bed was empty. Balfour must have sneaked out quietly at some point in the night.

"You planning on staying, then?" Rook said, his voice so incongruously smooth that it took Thom several moments to understand his words.

He gaped at him. "What? Why would I stay here?"

Rook shrugged. "You've fucked exactly one person in the past year. Stands to reason he's someone...special to you. Even if he is Balfour." There was a long silence while Thom groped desperately for words that refused to come. Before he could speak, Rook added grudgingly, "And not that I was paying attention or anything, but Balfour wasn't exactly sleeping his way through Volstov in the years I knew him. So there's a good chance he cares for you, too."

Thom felt his cheeks warm, but he shook his head. "It's not that easy." Rook opened his mouth, no doubt to insist that it was; there wasn't a complication in the world that Rook didn't want to pound into simplicity. Thom continued quickly, "Balfour's family doesn't know that he's--" Too many coarse, mean-spirited words vied for his attention, none of them appropriate to his purpose. "--that he prefers men."

Rook made a face at him, asking without words how anyone could miss such an obvious fact, and Thom rolled his eyes but didn't argue the point. It was true in _this_ case, and Rook tended to deal badly with abstract principles such as "Not every man with polite manners and a distaste for promiscuity is a cindy" when a counterexample was living under the same roof with him. Two counterexamples, actually, since that description fit Thom, as well.

"And I don't want to stop traveling with you yet. We've only explored a fraction of Volstov, and I'm not ready to quit." An unpleasant thought occurred to him. "Unless you are?" he asked. Rook was certainly devious enough to plan that sort of misdirection, if for some reason he wanted to get rid of Thom without making it obvious that that's what he was doing.

But Rook shook his head. "There's nothing for me in Thremedon but miserable politicking and th'Esar breathing down my neck, and I sure as fuck don't want to settle down anyplace else."

"Well, then." Thom's heartbeat settled into a more sedate rhythm than it had followed throughout the conversation. "We'll stay to the end of the week as we'd planned, and then we'll be on our way." He hesitated, and then took a deep breath and said, "Though perhaps we could return here for another visit from time to time."

He half-expected Rook to become angry, or at least viciously mocking at the suggestion. Instead, Rook laughed and leaned over to swipe a roughly affectionate hand over Thom's head. "In the interests of making sure that it doesn't fall off from disuse, I think we'd better," he said, with a bit of a leer at Thom's lap.

"In either case, I think my way's preferable to losing it to syphilis," Thom retorted.

"You do think that," Rook agreed. "But that's because you're too stupid to know that tomorrow's going to fuck you over _somehow,_ so you might as well stop worrying about it and enjoy today."

As a moral philosophy, it was sadly lacking. As practical advice, on the other hand... Well, Thom wasn't too proud to admit--to himself, if not to Rook--that he planned to follow Rook's creed for the remainder of their visit.


End file.
